


A Chink in the Armor

by sherlocked11



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mild Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 21:42:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocked11/pseuds/sherlocked11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a tiny ficlet. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Chink in the Armor

"John!"

Sherlock's voice was slightly strangled as he clutched his side and stumbled backwards into a wall. John whipped around, slammed his revolver back into its holster and ran to Sherlock's aid. 

"What's wrong? What happened?" John questioned in his steady doctor's voice.   
"It's just a scratch. It's fine. But we need to go home," Sherlock stammered back. His face was pale and contorted with pain. He moved his long coat more securely over his torso and made to walk out of the alley. Strong, steady arms caught him as he stumbled and nearly fell. 

"Move your hands, Sherlock," John said forcefully as he maneuvered the taller man into a sitting position against the wall. He pulled back the coat to reveal a dark circle of blood spreading from beneath Sherlock's shirt. The doctor in him analyzed the wound quickly. Sherlock was losing blood quickly. It didn't look like a very big gash, but it was deceptively deep. There had to be some sort of internal damage, he realized. John whipped out his phone with one hand and dialed Lestrade while he held his other hand firmly against the wound. 

"I need an ambulance right away. It's Sherlock. He's been hurt. And we got the guy. You may want to send help for him too," he said calmly into the phone. Inside his heart was racing. Sherlock had gotten himself a pretty nasty gash and John was scared. He didn't need the detective knowing that, so he put on his best 'doctor face' and saw to his patient. 

If Sherlock had just stayed where he was and waited for Lestrade, none of this would have happened. But no. Sherlock, as always, had to go racing off after the murderer. John shuddered to think what could have happened if he hadn't been there. The man had run at Sherlock with every intention of strangling him with his bare hands. The two had fought for what seemed like a very long time, though it couldn't have lasted more than a minute before Sherlock pushed his attacker away. Finally, John had a clear shot. He had nailed him in the kneecap, effectively immobilizing him. It was then Sherlock had called out to him in that small, hurt voice. John had not been quick enough. 

He laid Sherlock down on the dirty ground of the alley and pressed his blue scarf to his side. John knew he was saying things, but his brain wasn't registering the words pouring out of his mouth. John only knew that he had to keep Sherlock conscious, no matter what. He caressed his friend's face with a blood-stained hand and was rewarded by a small smile from Sherlock. He smiled back and kept murmuring safe, supportive, positive things. He knew he was most likely annoying Sherlock with this steady stream of unintelligent thoughts, but annoyed was much better than dying. John's head snapped up when he heard the sirens of the ambulance. 

Paramedics forced him to give up his position at Sherlock's side momentarily while they analyzed and addressed the situation. Finally, Sherlock was in the ambulance with John sitting next to him, their fingers intertwined as paramedics flurried around the enclosed space. Once at the hospital, John was told to wait outside the surgery with several other families. At first he paced around the place, anxious for Sherlock and angry with himself. He finally settled down after he realized a terrified-looking young girl was staring at him. If she could be quiet and brave, then so could he. 

Several hours passed before a scrubs-clad doctor appeared at the door and beckoned for John. 

"He has lost a lot of blood, but we expect a full recovery. You may have saved his life back there. He's sedated for now, but that should be wearing off soon. If you'd like, you can sit with him," explained the doctor. John could have melted he was so relieved. Sherlock was alive. Sherlock was going to be fine. It was all okay. 

Upon entering the room, John saw his best friend lying in the hospital cot looking pale and fragile. The sight tugged at his heartstrings and he rushed over to the bed and took the long fingers into his own. He released them just long enough to drag the chair next to his bed. With his free hand, John started running his fingers through his flatmate's dark curls. What little comfort he could provide was worth risking giving people something to talk about. 

After about an hour or so, Sherlock started to come around. John sat up, his previous tiredness banished. He smiled as Sherlock opened his bright blue eyes and took in his surroundings, storing useful information away in that massive brain of his. Those eyes alighted on John and Sherlock gave him a weak smile. 

"Did we get him, John?" Sherlock whispered. 

"Of course, Sherlock. You always get him," John replied. 

Sherlock smiled at that and squeezed John's hand. Clearly the morphine was working well.   
"I'm tired, John. Will you still be here when I wake up?"

Blushing at the unusual display of affection from Sherlock, John stood and planted a kiss on Sherlock's forehead. "I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock. Go ahead and sleep. I'll be right here," John said softly, running his fingers through his curls again. 

That was all the reassurance that Sherlock needed, apparently. The consulting detective drifted off to sleep while his doctor stood guard against the monsters.


End file.
